


Beneath the Northern Lights

by peach_oolong_tea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Feels, Complete, Drama, Historical, Historical Figures, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nordic Seven Years' War, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peach_oolong_tea/pseuds/peach_oolong_tea
Summary: Four years have passed since the war began, and Lukas is so tired that he has forgotten what it feels like to be truly awake. As the Kingdom of Norway gradually loses ground, Lukas is forced to sacrifice more and more so that his country may survive another day.Four years have passed, and Lukas fears for the future. He fears for Norway, for Denmark, for Magnus.Most of all, he fears that he will never see Magnus again.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 44





	1. No More than a Passing Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is my first work in the Archive, and I'm super excited (and nervous, too!) to be publishing here.
> 
> As this is a story based on historical events (namely, the Nordic Seven Years' War), I have included some background information to help contextualize it below in some notes at the end.

_Akershus Fortress, Oslo, Norway_

_May 1567, Nordic Seven Years’ War_

Lukas pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Silence!” he finally shouts, standing up. “ _Silence!_ ”

The room full of military officials quiets immediately.

“Fifteen-minute recess,” he declares wearily. “This is a disgrace. It has been an hour and a half, and we have made no progress.”

The room then begins to clamor again; some remain at the table, some exit the crowded space. Sinking into his chair, Lukas passes a hand over his forehead. He tries to take a deep breath, but the air in the room is humid, oppressive, almost suffocating. He considers stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, but his limbs feel heavier than stone.

_I’m exhausted_ , he thinks bleakly. He realizes dimly that he cannot remember the last time he felt truly awake.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik?” Lukas hears, and he looks up.

“Messenger Nordskov. Is something the matter?” he asks, addressing the young soldier that has just entered the room.

“I bring correspondence from the Danish encampment stationed near Stockholm,” Nordskov says in a hushed voice. “From _Herr_ Densen.”

_Magnus_. The name flashes through his mind, and Lukas gives a start, a jolt of nervous energy piercing through the exhaustion that surrounds him like a fog.

“Thank you, Messenger,” he says, and takes the furled missive from Nordskov’s outstretched hand. Rising from his place at the head of the table, he exits the room, allowing its heavy oak doors to swing shut behind him. Traversing a winding staircase, Lukas makes his way down to the ground floor of the fortress, emerging into a hallway where he finally feels a crisp breeze on his face.

He sighs, relieved to have escaped the stuffiness of the conference room. Following the breeze to its source, Lukas eventually finds a door propped open at the end of the corridor. He sags against the doorframe, revelling in the feeling of sunshine on his face. It is an unseasonably warm day.

_I would be content to simply stay here in the sun_ , he muses. _How long has it been? Four years? Yes...four years since it began. How much more can we take?_ Lukas stretches and winces, feeling the toll that years of battle have taken on his body.

_Magnus_ , he thinks, turning his attention back to the message in his hand, but cannot complete the thought.

An image flashes through his mind, unbidden—a glimpse of wild blond hair glinting in a ray of pale winter sunlight, eyes like the sky, deep and blue and clear, a rare, genuine smile.

Slowly, he unties the fraying twine around the middle of the scroll, and it unfurls with a soft rustle. He starts a little at the faint, familiar scent of pine.

__

_Lukas,_

__

_Please forgive me if you find this letter rushed. I do not have much time; I must leave soon to help mediate pay negotiations with a group of mercenaries. I apologize, for there is no tactical reason for my penning this letter to you, and so it may very well seem like a waste of time._

__

_It seems like an eternity has passed since those first stirrings of war. In the past two years especially, I have grown weary, and I know that you have as well. Feliks and Toris are not faring very well either, and I believe that even Berwald grows tired, even though he may be too proud to admit it._

__

_I cannot help but wonder if the best choice at this point is to surrender, as my strength wanes and the mercenaries grow less and less inclined to cooperate. However, more is at stake here than my own well-being._

__

_Lukas, I fear for the future. I fear for myself, for my people, for your people, and for you, most of all. How much more can we take before Berwald and his forces finally force us to our knees? Believe me, Lukas—I want to continue this fight, but I fear that we cannot._

__

_If this war continues for much longer, I fear that we may never see each other again. I entreat you to believe me when I say that I regret the way our last conversation ended, and that now, I only wish to see you one more time. I know that we must not lose hope. I know that all is not lost; I am simply so tired that I worry I cannot continue._

__

_I do not want this to be the end. I want to see peace one day, but I fear that this war will take so much from us—from all of us, even Feliks and Toris, even Berwald—that there will eventually be nothing left._

__

Min elskede _, if I fall—if Denmark falls—promise me that you will not fall with me. If I fall, promise me that you will do whatever is necessary to survive, even if you must sacrifice your own dignity._

__

_I am truly sorry, Lukas. I hope that we can see each other again._

__

_Yours,_  
_Magnus Densen_

__

Lukas sinks down to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest. _Magnus_ , he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face into his hands, _I can’t even blame you, because I would then have to blame myself as well...but perhaps we are both at fault. I know that I am certainly to blame_.

He leans his head back to rest against the wall, letting the cool breeze soothe the troubled furrow of his brows, ease the tension in his shoulders.

So absorbed in this rare moment of peace, Lukas hardly notices when his eyelids begin to flutter shut.

He wakes after a little while, Magnus’ message still clutched in his hand. He gently rolls it back up and reties the twine around the center, tucking it safely into his cloak. _I should go back_. Lukas takes a deep breath and slowly gets to his feet.

He turns around to head back to the conference room and is trudging up the last few stairs when the pain hits. It is a powerful ache that blooms suddenly in his side, and Lukas falls to his knees, one trembling hand gripping the railing. His breath hisses out through his teeth, and he manages a short, strangled cry.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik! _Herr_ Bondevik! Are you alright?”

Lukas tries to focus on the face of the man kneeling before him; he dimly recognizes him to be Christen Munk, the seignor of Akershus Fortress and county governor of Hamar and Akershus. He tries to open his mouth, to say that something is _wrong_ , but suddenly he no longer sees the familiar stone walls of the fortress.

The image is hazy. It swims before his eyes and refuses to focus, but he recognizes the Swedish flag, a tattered rectangle of blue and gold flying high above a city that has become a battlefield. He sees men of both sides raise their muskets, their swords, aim, fire, slash, parry, fall.

Desperately, Lukas searches for any familiar landmark, and then he sees it—those pale walls, those three towers with their peaked roofs. _Hamar Cathedral!_ he realizes.

“Hamar,” he chokes out, and then he is wrenched back to Akershus Fortress. “Hamar is falling!” he gasps out desperately. The pain intensifies and he curls around it.

A cry rises all around him.

“Secure the perimeter of the fortress!”

“Sound the alarm in Oslo. Send a messenger, now!”

“Get Herr Bondevik to safety!”

Lukas clenches his hands until they stop trembling.

“Let me fight,” he whispers. “Let me fight for my people. Let me lead,” he pleads, but his voice is no more than a passing thought in the cacophony of the hallway.

“Magne,” he whispers, and then everything dissolves into a chaotic fog of aching and noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information and context:
> 
> The Nordic Seven Years' War (also known as the Northern Seven Years' War) began in 1563 and lasted until 1570. On one side was the coalition of Denmark-Norway, the Hanseatic City of Lübeck (a city-state located in modern-day Germany), and the Polish-Lithuanian Union; on the other side was Sweden.
> 
> Key historical figures involved in the Nordic Seven Years' War and included in this story are Daniel Rantzau, a Danish-German general, and Christen Munk, the Danish seignor (a role similar to that of a lord) of Akershus Fortress and county governor of the Norwegian counties of Hamar and Akershus.
> 
> Akershus Fortress, where a good portion of this story takes place, is a medieval fortress located in Oslo, the capital city of Norway. Historically, it was strategically important for maintaining control of Norway.
> 
> Also, a few language things:
> 
> "Magne" is the Norwegian variant of "Magnus."  
> " _Min elskede_ " means "my beloved" in both Danish and Norwegian.
> 
> Now with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading! It would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism.


	2. The Ache and the Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I'm back with the second chapter of "Beneath the Northern Lights." To those that read the first chapter, offered words of encouragement, or left kudos, thank you so much for making my first experience posting here a positive one! I'm still really excited (but much less nervous) to post the second chapter, and I hope you enjoy it. As with the first chapter, historical background information is included at the end.

_Akershus Fortress, Oslo, Norway_

_May 1567, Nordic Seven Years’ War_

For a while, Lukas forgets where he is. He drifts, it seems, in a quiet, empty black space. Once, for a few moments or a few hours—try as he might, he can’t tell the difference—he lies there, half-awake, suspended in a kind of muted awareness.

He is buried under what he realizes is a heavy coverlet. Internally, he frowns—he feels so cold, but he can feel the sweat beading on his brow. He opens his mouth—to ask for another blanket, he thinks, but the words die from his tongue.

The shadowy figures gathered at the foot of his bed are speaking. Their words fade in and out; a few words or maybe even a full sentence here and there he hears clearly, but the rest melt into the crackling of the fire in the background.

“...too long.”

“It has...four years.”

“...word from the encampment...headed here.”

“Burning the city?”

“...more damage.”

Lukas plucks weakly at the edge of the blanket and allows his eyelids to flutter shut once again.

When he truly wakes, he hears the pitter-patter of rain from outside. Hesitantly, Lukas shifts to an upright position, wincing as he does so. A dull throb in his side accompanies the movement.

Something pale catches his eye. _Ah_ , Lukas realizes, picking up the little wooden cross from the nightstand beside his bed. _My hairpin...someone must have taken it off for me_. He turns it over and over in his hand. It is worn, the small piece of aspen wood, and it feels almost warm to the touch.

Lukas pauses for a second. He closes his eyes, imagines those familiar hands—callused from countless battles of years past, he knows, because he has held them in his own—deftly, carefully shaving slivers of wood away with a gleaming blade until the cross that he holds in his hand has taken shape. He imagines those gentle, scarred fingers brushing away the stray lock of hair from his forehead and pinning the cross into place.

Lukas remembers that cautious, feather-light touch, lingering on his cheek. He remembers leaning into it; he remembers its warmth.

He opens his eyes, brushes away the hair that has fallen into his face, and pins the cross into place.

Lukas bites his lip and lets out his breath in one long exhale; his shoulders slump as if he has been deflated. _How I wish you were here right now. I know that I must be strong, but how I wish you were here…_

He sighs, passes a hand over his face.

“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly that it is almost lost in the crackle of the fire, in the soft taps of the raindrops falling against his window. “I miss you so much,” he whispers, and squeezes his eyes shut, hides his face in his hands, as though covering his eyes will stop the tears from leaking out, the breath from hitching in his chest, the quiet half-sobs from catching in his throat.

Lukas rises from the bed and moves gingerly to the little alcove where the window is nestled. He pushes it open just a crack, lets the smell and the slight chill of the rain filter into the room. He gasps, a sharp intake of breath, when another pulse of pain radiates out from his side.

“It hurts, Magne,” Lukas says softly, to the rain that falls through the air and to the sky beyond, as if the wind will take his words to Magnus and then Magnus will be there, really there, in front of him. He leans his head against the cool stone wall.

Lukas shakes his head to clear it. He shuts the window and moves to the heavy wooden wardrobe that stands in one corner of the room. He dresses slowly and then goes to leave the room, pausing to pull on his cloak. When Lukas moves to fasten it over his shoulder, there is a slight crinkle at the motion.

He reaches inside his cloak and pulls out Magnus’ message. _Oh…_ he realizes. Haltingly, he unties the twine and coaxes the tightly rolled parchment to unfurl once again. Magnus’ penmanship is familiar to him, as familiar as his own, as is the faint scent of pine that rises from the scroll. Lukas smiles wanly; he can remember that scent so clearly from a different time.

He reties the twine around the scroll, tucks it away into his cloak again, and exits the room.

Half in a daze, Lukas wanders into the wing of the fortress where the conference room is housed. Rounding a corner, he immediately hears the sounds of an impassioned argument leaking into the corridor. Nodding to the guards that stand watch outside, he sighs quietly to himself, then goes to push the door open.

The noise tapers for a few seconds and then drops off. Lukas glances around the room, his gaze falling on those seated around the long table. He gives a start when he sees the man sitting to the right of the empty chair—his chair—at the head of the table. _General Daniel Rantzau_ , he realizes.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik,” Rantzau says, rising from his seat. “I had been informed of your sudden illness. I am happy to see that you have recovered.”

“Thank you for the well wishes, General Rantzau,” Lukas says. “When did you arrive at Akershus Fortress? I hope you are finding your accommodations suitable.”

“One day ago,” Rantzau answers. “I received word about the dire situation at Hamar two days ago and immediately made preparations to travel here.”

“Thank you, General,” Lukas says quietly. “Although I am sure that Seignor Munk has already thanked you earnestly, allow me to do so again for your dedication to the protection of Akershus Fortress.”

“Of course,” Rantzau says. “If you are feeling well enough, please join us for today’s strategy meeting,” he continues, and waves a hand to Lukas’ empty chair at the head of the table.

“My thanks for the invitation, General Rantzau,” Lukas says, and moves to the head of the table. When he takes his place, Rantzau begins to speak again.

“Seignor Munk, would you be so kind as to inform _Herr_ Bondevik about that which we have discussed thus far?” Rantzau says to Munk.

“Of course, General Rantzau,” Munk says stiffly. Lukas winces; he can hear plainly the strain that pulls at his words.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik, prior to your joining our meeting, we had been discussing defensive measures for the impending attack on Oslo. While you were unconscious, we received news from Hamar. A messenger was able to leave the city undetected, and brought the grave news that our enemies are making preparations to march on our capital,” Munk explains.

“We have been considering two possible approaches regarding the impending attack,” Rantzau interjects. “Our first option is a standard defense: fortifying the perimeter and readying our forces to counter the Swedish forces; our second option is to…” Rantzau trails off.

“To burn Oslo,” Munk cuts in, glaring distastefully at Rantzau. “To burn Oslo—ourselves—before the forces of Sweden are able.”

Silence fills the room, presses in. Lukas feels as though the breath has suddenly been pulled from his body.

 _Burn...Oslo? Burn the capital?_

Lukas tenses.

He remembers when the Black Death had ravaged his country some two hundred years ago, had suspended him in a mist of confusion, had wrested away all of his strength, had inflicted upon him, magnified thousandfold, the unrelenting pain of his people. Most acutely he remembers the ache and the sorrow of the citizens of the capital, the core of the country.

He remembers when Oslo had burned, mere years after the epidemic, had plunged him into an ocean of searing, scorching pain so excruciating that he had been convinced it would somehow mark him physically.

He remembers the pain, feels it echo through his body. His side throbs, as if to remind him. Unconsciously, Lukas clenches his fists.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik, how do you believe we should proceed?” Rantzau asks.

“I…” _I never want to feel like that again_.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik?” Rantzau prompts.

Lukas closes his eyes. He stays there, drifting in the darkness behind his eyelids, for a second. He opens his eyes, and as his vision fills with light again, he opens his mouth to speak.

“We must burn the city.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information and context:
> 
> This chapter references three historical events that happened in Oslo: the arrival of the Black Death, the major fire that occurred a few years afterward, and the torching of the city during the Nordic Seven Years' War. 
> 
> The Black Death reached Norway in 1349, hitting Oslo specifically in 1350. Ultimately, the plague wiped out three-fourths of the population of Oslo and one-half of the population of the entire country.
> 
> In 1352, two years after the plague devastated Oslo, a major fire swept through the city, mostly notably burning down St. Hallvard's Cathedral, known as _Hallvardskatedralen_ in Norwegian.
> 
> During the Nordic Seven Years' War, in response to an impending Swedish invasion of Oslo and, by extension, Akershus Fortress, Seignor Christen Munk gave the order to torch the city so as to make it more difficult for the Swedish forces to claim it.
> 
> Now with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading! It would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism below—I'm always looking to improve my writing.
> 
> Lastly (sorry for the lengthy note!), the third chapter will be posted next Thursday, May 17, which is coincidentally Norway's _Syttende Mai_ holiday, also known as Norwegian Constitution Day. It's also canonically Norway's birthday!


	3. Jaws of Heat and Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I'm back today with the third chapter of "Beneath the Northern Lights." Firstly, I wanted to thank everyone that has read or left a comment or Kudos on the earlier chapters! I can't thank you enough for your support. Secondly, I wanted to clear something up—I realized that today is not in fact _Syttende Mai_ , which is Norway's Constitution Day. _Syttende Mai_ will actually be this Sunday, so sorry about that! As with the previous chapters, historical information will be included at the end of the chapter.

_Akershus Fortress, Oslo, Norway_

_May 1567, Nordic Seven Years’ War_

“No! I will not allow it!” Munk declares emphatically, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang. “Burn our own capital? Are you insane?”

Rantzau opens his mouth as if to speak, but Munk holds up a hand to stop him, his eyes flashing.

“Not only must we weigh the fact that this initiative will lead to the destruction of the supplies, weaponry, and command centers located in Oslo, we also must consider how it will impact _Herr_ Bondevik!” Munk exclaims. “Have you already forgotten the attack on Hamar? Tell me, General, if you can then give the order to burn Oslo in good conscience!”

“Seignor Munk, we do not yet know how it will affect _Herr_ Bondevik—” Rantzau begins.

“Oh, but are you willing to be so callous as to risk his life—and quite possibly that of our country as well?” Munk fires off furiously.

“Seignor Munk...” Rantzau tries again.

This time, Lukas cuts in.

“Enough,” he says quietly, the word perfectly even.

“Seignor Munk, I appreciate your concern for myself and for our country. However, it is clear that we cannot withstand another direct attack. Our soldiers are exhausted, and trying to mount a defense would prove disastrous. At this point, given that we have sufficient time before their offensive, the removal of some supplies and weapons from the city is still possible. Salvage what we can and burn the rest, and we may be able to deter the attack, or, in the very least, prevent the capture of Oslo,” Lukas addresses the room. “Ultimately, the top priority here is to protect Akershus Fortress, and an invasion of Oslo threatens to compromise our hold over it. Do not forget—he who controls Akershus Fortress controls Norway,” he reminds the officials gathered around the table.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik...but your health!” Munk protests.

“No need to worry, Seignor Munk,” Lukas says. He is very careful to keep the tremble out of his voice. “As long as the country stands, I will stand. I am not afraid of a little pain,” he assures the seignor.

He rises, despite the ache that persists in his side. Lukas lifts his head high and begins to speak.

“I have survived much in the centuries of my existence. Oslo has burned before—let it burn again. Let the forces of Sweden come. When they come, we will give them nothing!” Lukas declares, his voice filling the room.

“Indeed, _Herr_ Bondevik,” Rantzau speaks, breaking the trembling silence that follows Lukas’ words. “I am in agreement with you. Norway is resilient; it has strength yet. Now, we must vote on the matter."

Lukas nods in agreement. _No..._

 _I must_.

"All in favor of burning the city, raise your hand.”

At Rantzau's words, all but a few of the men in the room raise their hands, a clear majority. Lukas' hand doesn't tremble.

“All in favor of a traditional defense, raise your hand,” Rantzau says after a few seconds.

“We find in favor of the first option,” Rantzau says. “Now we must plan for the next few days. Admiral Strand and Commander Solberg, you have units stationed in the city, correct?”

Their affirmative replies are oddly and suddenly muffled; Lukas’ hand drifts up to his head, as though there is cotton stuffed in his ears that might be distorting the sound.

It happens so quickly.

This new pain is so instantaneous that Lukas cannot comprehend it at first. His vision flickers, and for a few seconds, he sees not the polished surface of the oaken table, but what he realizes are the buildings of a city.

He sees it, that familiar, tattered rectangle of blue and gold. He sees men rushing to arm themselves, faces twisted in expressions of surprise and fear and rage.

He sees the flames, just beginning to spread through the city, snapping hungrily at all in reach with jaws of heat and light.

The imposing fortress in the center of the settlement commands his attention; those turrets, those walls, those towers are familiar. He remembers the ruler that had ordered the construction of the castle, five centuries earlier. 

Lukas blinks, and the vision is gone.

The first thing he sees is the familiar varnished wood of the table; the first thing he hears is his own labored breathing. He has hunched in on himself, Lukas realizes, his shoulders drawn into his body and his hands pressed against his stomach, where the pain is radiating out in fiery bursts. They shake as he pulls them away, and he half expects to see scarlet smeared on his fingertips, half expects to see the hilt of a blade sticking out of his body.

There is nothing there.

“Borg,” Lukas forces out through teeth gritted from the pain. “Swedish forces from the east—they are burning Borg!”

The room instantly fills with noise.

“All of you, quiet!” Rantzau shouts. “ _Herr_ Bondevik, I need you to tell me everything you saw, right now!” he exclaims, standing up in such a rush that his chair falls to the floor with a resounding crash.

Lukas winces at the sound. The pain intensifies to an unbearable level for one sickening second, and he has to fight to stay conscious, to force the darkness that is fast obscuring his vision to recede. Bracing himself against the table, Lukas manages to shift into an upright position. Pain surging through his body at every movement, Lukas finally falls limply back into his chair.

“Swedish forces have rushed Borg,” he manages. “From...from the east…”

“How many? _Herr_ Bondevik, you must tell me now!” Rantzau demands.

“I...it was too quick, General...the vision was not...long enough,” Lukas demands.

He wonders if those words he is hearing, those words that are so thin and worn and lifeless, are his own.

“I need you to answer me—!”

“Enough. Stop, General Rantzau,” Lukas hears, and it takes him a second to realize that it is Munk speaking, his voice filled with a quiet, furious authority.

“I am the seignor of Akershus Fortress, General, and I am putting a stop to this. We know already that Swedish forces have attacked Borg. I understand and appreciate your determination to ensure the continued survival of the Norwegian state, but _Herr_ Bondevik must rest. What we must do now is prepare for the impending attack on Oslo,” Munk says, his tone trembling with indignance.

Rantzau says something to Munk, his words softer, but Lukas can’t quite make out the words; they are indistinct, they blend and run together.

The room is noisier now. More people have begun to speak.

Somewhere, though, Lukas dimly registers an undertone of desperation in the cadences of the voices that fill the room; it is something he recognizes from the rise and fall of his own words, something with which the words written on the scroll tucked into his cloak sigh.

The invisible wound in his stomach doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore; all that is left is an odd sensation of warmth.

Suddenly, Lukas wants nothing more than to sleep. His limbs are leaden, his head heavy. Lukas closes his eyes, lets himself believe that he isn’t sitting, curled around a wound no one else can see, at the oaken table.

He lets himself believe that he is safe in a familiar embrace that smells of pine. He lets himself believe, for one improbable second, that Magnus will be there when he opens his eyes again, smiling down at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information and context:
> 
> This chapter references the burning of the city of Borg. "Borg" is actually its historical name—today, it is the city of Sarpsborg, which is the administrative center of the Norwegian municipality of the same name. In Norse times, the city actually took its name from the castle referenced in the chapter—the word " _borg_ " means "castle." The construction of said castle was ordered by the Viking king Olav (also spelled as "Olaf") Haraldsson, also referenced in the chapter as the "ruler," who founded Borg in 1016.
> 
> In May 1567, during the Nordic Seven Years' War, the city was torched by Swedish forces.
> 
> Now with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading—it would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism down below!
> 
> The next chapter will be posted on the actual _Syttende Mai_ holiday, so on this Sunday, May 17.


	4. The Sun-Dappled Space Between Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Today, I'm excited to (finally!) be back with the (rewritten) fourth chapter of "Beneath the Northern Lights." First, I'd like to thank everyone that's stuck around during my hiatus! Second, I'd like to shout out reader Troya, who made an incredible drawing of Lukas for this story and was kind enough to mention me in their post. Here's the link: https://www.tumgir.com/norwegian-butterfly. Third, tomorrow is the 4th of July, also known as Independence Day in the United States. It's canonically America's birthday, so happy birthday to America! Sorry for the long note, and as always, historical information is included at the end.

_Akershus Fortress, Oslo, Norway_

_May - June 1567, Nordic Seven Years’ War_

Lukas sleeps.

He is aware of that familiar, empty blackness falling around him, enveloping him. It is tranquil for a while, and he rests peacefully, only the memory of an ache in his body.

Time passes; he feels it slip away, slip away like grains of sand trickling through his fingers.

Eventually, the space around him seems to shift; the darkness seems to shiver slightly, to press in on itself, and suddenly, there is color.

It is a forest that Lukas sees before him. Stands of evergreen trees, still lush even as the chill of autumn lingers in the air, stretch out as far as the eye can see. To the right, the trees give way to a rocky shore where waves roll in from the ocean. Deep within himself, he can sense a fond memory of this place, of the salty ocean air and the rustle of the wind through the trees.

Lukas blinks, and suddenly, there is a city in front of him. Gone is much of the immediate forest, and there is a harbor now, built at the interface between the land and the sea. In the distance, he can make out the sails of the ships moored at the docks rippling in the breeze.

The streets, the façades on the buildings, those spires that rise into the air in the distance—they are familiar to Lukas, for he knows, instinctively, that they are what mark out his history. Something stirs in him when he sees the desperation that twists the faces of the people that rush through the city, the sorrow and the anguish etched into their expressions—they are a part of him, and their pain is his pain; this he knows with a bone-deep certainty.

The city before him, he realizes, is Oslo.

A feeling of dread settles over him. 

As he watches, fire leaps from their hands, and in an instant, the city is engulfed in flames, in a terrible golden light.

 _I’m sorry_ , he cries out silently. _I have failed you_.

His vision blurs; his knees buckle, spilling him out onto the ground. Lukas knows it well, that hot, sudden pain that blooms in his chest. As those flames rise ever higher, as that devouring light consumes ever more of the city, the pain surges, intensifies to an unbearable level. It is like there is liquid fire flowing through Lukas’ veins, and he opens his mouth to scream, but the cry is strangled in his throat.

He closes his eyes, grits his teeth, tries to breathe through it. It is a comfort to him, the blackness behind his eyelids, though only a minor one, for the pain remains.

He stays there for a little while, just until it abates slightly, and he feels able to open his eyes once again.

He stands in a meadow.

Lukas can see new shoots of grass, just beginning to push their way out of the ground at his feet. A breeze sighs through the air; it nips lightly at Lukas’ skin, but he knows that the days will grow warmer soon. The image seems to warp and shudder for a second, and suddenly the grass is rippling gently in the warm summer wind, the tallest fronds just brushing his knees.

Lukas looks up. Before him, in the distance, is a castle. He remembers those towers of gray granite, that sturdy stone wall that surrounds the entire compound. His eyelids drift shut; he remembers looking out of one of those windows at the very top of that southern tower, gazing out over the Nordre älv.

 _Ragnhildsholmen_ , Lukas realizes.

He opens his eyes again. Streaks of glistening red mar the delicate green of the new grass before him; the ringing clash of blades and the explosive bursts of gunfire shatter the silence. As if on cue, fire erupts all around him, a voracious storm of heat and light. It doesn’t take long for the air to fill with thick, gray smoke; it stings the back of Lukas’ throat and plucks tears from his eyes. Through it, he can see that familiar blue-and-gold standard, flying above a meadow that has become a battlefield.

Lukas doesn’t know how long he stands there. It seems as though the seconds stretch into minutes into hours into days—yet, the tongues of flame seem to remain still, to undulate so slowly that they appear to not move at all. The sky grows dark, but he cannot tell if it is because of the choking haze of the smoke or if it is because of the passage of time, because of the descent of the sun below the horizon.

It is then that the pain flares again. It is excruciating; he is left breathless, gasping for air. He collapses to the ground. Green and red and gold and gray blend and run together, and his sight grows dim.

Darkness falls all around Lukas once again, and then, slowly, gradually, he becomes aware of the fragrant shoots of grass pressing into his cheek. Opening his eyes, he manages to stand.

Lukas knows those streets, as strewn with soot-blackened debris as they are. He knows those buildings, too, even though they have been burnt beyond recognition, reduced to blackened shells and piles of broken beams.

As he watches, there is a cry, and then another, and another. Soon, the relative quiet is filled with shouts, with the terrible song of clashing steel and musket fire. He can see the expressions of his people so clearly; gone are their sorrow and their anguish, although their desperation remains. Now, there is anger, too, though it is tempered by a kind of sunken-in weariness.

 _It can’t be. No...this wasn’t supposed to happen_.

The words feel terribly hollow. There is a sick, nauseating sense of wrongness that seems to permeate Lukas’ entire being. He falls to his knees, hunches over the pain that has become unbearable.

 _Was it all for nothing, then?_ Lukas wonders. _All of that suffering? All of that pain? Was it really for nothing?_

Lukas clenches his teeth.

_No. It wasn’t._

Despite the unbearable pain, despite the exhaustion that has weighed him down for so long, despite it all, Lukas straightens his back and squares his shoulders.

 _It was for them! It’s always been for them, and it will always be for them_.

_For my people...for them, I will never stop fighting. I will stand my ground. We’ll make it through this war. We’ll survive—! ___

Lukas’ eyes widen.

Suddenly, he is standing in a little forest glade, the light of the sun filtering in through the canopy of leaves above; the spring breeze is pleasantly warm on his skin. Impossibly, he sees Magnus, standing before him, his blue eyes filled with fondness and the hint of a slight, wan smile on his lips.

“Min elskede, _if I fall—if Denmark falls—promise me that you will not fall with me. If I fall, promise me that you will do whatever is necessary to survive_.”

Magnus’ words seem to echo through the sun-dappled space between them.

 _No!_ Lukas wants to cry out. _How could you give up so easily? Your people need you_.

I _need you. Please...don’t turn your back on us_.

Lukas reaches out a hand to Magnus.

_There’s something I need to tell you, so hang on until then, alright?_

_I’ll be there for you the rest of the way. We’ll end this war. We can make it through this because we have each other_.

Lukas closes the distance between them and embraces Magnus.

It feels right, the way his head fits so perfectly into the juncture of Magnus’ neck and shoulder. For the first time in a long while, he is at ease, and in that moment, he is certain that everything will be alright.

Suddenly, Magnus goes limp in Lukas’ arms. Startled, Lukas stumbles, and he is barely able to catch Magnus before he hits the ground.

It is cold now, he notices. Gone are the balmy spring breeze, the pleasant little glade, the warm golden sunlight.

Gone are the last traces of that tired smile, the fond look in those blue eyes.

It is silent but for the whisper of the wind.

It takes him a moment to comprehend what he is seeing, to comprehend the scarlet-drenched wound in Magnus’ chest, the blood that has pooled on the grass beneath his still body, the terrible, depthless emptiness that fills his eyes.

_No. No!_

It happens in an instant.

“Magne!” he cries out, and suddenly, he is sitting up, bedcovers pooled around his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information and context:
> 
> This chapter references three historical events that occured in 1567.
> 
> The first is the burning of Oslo. Knowing that the Swedish forces that had captured Hamar were marching on Oslo, and that additional Swedish troops from the southeast were also marching on Oslo, Seignor Munk gave the order for citizens to burn down Oslo. By doing this, Munk hoped to prevent the forces from gaining a foothold in the city.
> 
> The second event is the burning of Konghelle, a town that had originally been settled by Vikings. Included in the settlement of Konghelle was a castle, located on the island of Raghnhildsholmen, which is on the Nordre älv (the "Northern River"), which is itself a tributary of the Göta älv (the "River of the Geats"). The Swedish troops from the southeast (as I have mentioned above) burned Konghelle on their way to Oslo. The ruins of Konghelle (and the castle at Ragnhildsholmen) are located in modern-day Sweden, in Gothenburg municipality, which is in Bohuslän Province (known as _Båhuslen_ in Norwegian and Danish).
> 
> The third event is the battle for Oslo—although Swedish forces did attack Oslo after it was burned, they were repelled by local forces, as well as additional forces sent by the king of the Dano-Norwegian union. They were ultimately forced to withdraw after eight days, however, due to a shortage of artillery and supplies.
> 
> Now with the contextual information out of the way (sorry, I know it was a lot of information), I'd like to thank you for reading! It would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism below.
> 
> The next chapter will be posted this upcoming Tuesday, July 7.


	5. A Quiet Kind of Certainty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm back today with the fifth chapter of "Beneath the Northern Lights." I want to thank everyone that has taken the time to read, comment, or leave Kudos! I really appreciate all of it. Also, I wanted to mention that I uploaded the rewrite of Chapter Four a few days ago. There is a pretty significant plot difference from the old version to the revised version, so you may want to read the rewrite to make sure that you are clear on the plot. Also, I really explored my own creative style and capabilities in the rewrite, and I'm quite proud of it—it'd be really cool if you could read it!
> 
> As always, historical context and information are included at the end of the chapter, and I hope you enjoy it!

_Akershus Fortress, Oslo, Norway_

_June 1567, Nordic Seven Years’ War_

At first, Lukas is disoriented. Then, he takes in the sight of those familiar stone walls, the fire crackling at the far end of the room, the furled message still on the desk where he’d left it—

_The message—Magne!_

In a split second, he remembers those empty blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky, that slack, expressionless face, that terrible, gaping wound. There is an overwhelming feeling that sweeps over him, then, that something is wrong.

_No. No! That...couldn’t have…I have to—!_

Lukas throws the covers aside, quickly and clumsily going to rise from the bed.

Just as he goes to take a step, his knees buckle and he falls hard to the floor. The room seems to spin, to careen and tilt at odd angles.

His head aches. He brings his palm to his forehead as if it might quell the pain. The skin is feverish to the touch; even so, Lukas shivers.

Suddenly, he has to gasp for breath. He wraps his arms around himself in a desperate attempt to quell the searing pain that has just flared in his chest, and then he is coughing and coughing and coughing until scarlet spatters the floor. He freezes, his eyes fixed on the blood—his blood, he realizes dimly—that stains the wooden floorboards.

He hears a loud bang from the entrance of the room, and although his vision has rapidly blurred, he can make out the figure of a person standing there, the door thrown wide open behind their silhouette.

There is a shout.

“Get help! _Herr_ Bondevik is awake!”

Lukas can hear the flurry of activity that instantly erupts out in the hall; there are the sounds of hurried footsteps and raised voices yelling back and forth. The noise seems to batter at his head; Lukas winces, swallowing hard on the metallic tang of blood that lingers in the back of his throat, in his mouth.

There is the sound of footsteps rushing into the room, and then, the sensation of a hand on his shoulder. He is gently guided to the bed and made to lie back down, the covers drawn up over his body. Enveloped once again by the soft, thick blanket, he is immediately and abruptly exhausted. It is like his limbs are leaden, his entire being impossibly heavy.

Overwhelmed, he lets his eyelids slip shut.

More people begin to enter the room. Lukas can hear the sounds of them moving about, although they are oddly muffled, almost as if there is cotton stuffed in his ears.

A few minutes later, there is a hush. 

Drifting in the blackness behind his eyelids, he struggles to hold onto wakefulness. He can just barely sense a careful touch on his wrist, can just barely register the bitter taste of the liquid that is tipped into his mouth perhaps a few minutes later.

_Magne…_

Lukas tries to hold onto the thought, to pull it close. _I have to…_ he thinks, but cannot complete the thought, and soon after, the blackness overtakes him.

When Lukas wakes, the room is silent but for the ever-present crackle of the fire. His eyelids are sticky with sleep; for a moment, he is halfway tempted to simply let himself sink back down into it.

He closes his eyes for a second and furrows his brow in concentration, forces himself to shake off the haze that seems to cloud his mind.

 _No. I must stay awake_.

Summoning all his strength, Lukas manages to struggle up into a sitting position. He shivers in spite of the fire that burns merrily at the opposite end of the room, in spite of the heavy woolen blanket that he draws around himself.

He presses the back of a hand to his forehead; the fever has gone down, he can tell. Tentatively, he takes a deep breath, blanching when that sharp, stabbing pain shoots through his chest.

Even so, his head is clearer now, he thinks. He feels a little stronger.

Gritting his teeth, he rises carefully from the bed and makes his way to the door.

 _Slowly. I must go slowly_ , he reminds himself.

By the time he reaches the door, he is out of breath, but after a few seconds, he is able to tug it open. Immediately, the guard posted just outside turns to address him.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik! Are you feeling better?” the guard asks.

“Yes, thank you,” Lukas replies, his voice hoarse. “I must speak to Seignor Munk; it is quite urgent. Would you be so kind as to get him?”

“Of course! Right away, _Herr_ Bondevik,” the guard responds, and hurries away down the hall.

Gingerly, Lukas makes his way back to the bed, and a few minutes later, Munk rushes into the room.

“Hello, Seignor Munk,” Lukas says. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Greetings, _Herr_ Bondevik! I am very much relieved that you have woken up. How are you feeling?” Munk responds, sitting in a wooden chair at the side of the bed.

“Better, thank you,” Lukas answers. “The medicine that the physician administered seems to have helped. And what of you? How are you doing?”

“I am well,” Munk replies. “Thank you for asking.”

“Seignor...can you tell me how long it has been?” Lukas asks after a few moments of silence.

“How long?” Munk echoes.

“Yes, Seignor...for how long have I slept?” Lukas prompts.

There is silence for a long moment.

“It has been...nearly three weeks,” Munk says finally.

“Three weeks…” Lukas repeats quietly.

“I am sorry, _Herr_ Bondevik. Even though...even though I gave the order to burn Oslo, it was ultimately...insufficient to deter the invasion, and aid from Danish forces was necessary to repel it.”

“It was necessary,” Lukas says. “There was no true alternative. Seignor...as I slept, I watched the castle of Ragnhildsholmen burn. What of Konghelle?”

“Konghelle has been razed to the ground,” Munk says quietly. “ _Herr_ Bondevik…I am sorry, for we have suffered much loss in the past three weeks.”

“Indeed.” The word is almost lost in the crackle of the fire. Lukas bows his head.

“Seignor,” he says after a moment. “Does...does _Herr_ Densen remain in Sweden? At the encampment stationed near Stockholm?”

“Yes, I believe that he does,” Munk replies. “May I ask why, _Herr_ Bondevik?”

“I must see him immediately.” Lukas’ words are soft, but he speaks them with absolute conviction. “I must leave for Stockholm as soon as possible.”

“But you simply cannot!” Munk exclaims. “The physician believes that you are suffering from inflammation of the respiratory system. It is his order that you remain on bed rest for at least the next two weeks!”

“The Danish forces will soon be launching an attack on Stockholm,” Lukas begins. “It will be within a week, if I have remembered correctly. I must speak with _Herr_ Densen prior to the attack.”

 _...in case he doesn’t survive it_. The thought, though unwelcome, rises up in Lukas’ mind, and, unconsciously, he grits his teeth.

 _No! I just have to get to him before it is too late_.

“You are ill. Very ill,” Munk says flatly. “You can barely walk, and what happened to Oslo was serious enough to severely impact your physical health, _Herr_ Bondevik. The journey would take at least six days—can you tell me honestly that you could manage it?”

“No,” Lukas says, “but I am prepared to take the risk.”

His voice, though quiet, is firm.

“For what?” Munk says, a slight edge of incredulity in his voice now. “I must ask—what is important enough to warrant such a dangerous journey? And, assuming that such a journey is necessary, could I not send another in your stead?”

“I cannot tell you, Seignor Munk, but please believe me when I say that it is integral to the survival of the Dano-Norwegian union, and that it must be myself who makes the journey. I understand that it is dangerous, but this matter truly cannot wait. I am prepared to take any measures necessary to get to Stockholm before the battle.”

For a lengthy moment, there is silence.

“Of course I believe you, _Herr_ Bondevik, but—” Munk begins, but Lukas gently cuts him off.

“I am sorry, Seignor, but I will not change my mind. If it eases yours, however, then please remember that as long as Norway stands, I stand. I have been through many battles, and I have lived through all of them.”

Lukas pauses.

“I will not die so easily, Seignor.”

There is not a trace of hesitation in his voice, only a quiet kind of certainty.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik, do you truly believe that there is no alternative?” Munk asks with a sigh.

“Yes,” Lukas says with finality.

“Alright,” Munk concedes. “This evening, you must regain your strength, as much as you can. I will have a bath drawn up for you, and a meal sent up here afterward. To achieve minimal travelling time, you will have to go by horseback, with only one other, and you will likely have to travel without armor, as well…I worry that it will slow you down.”

“That is a risk I am willing to take,” Lukas says quickly.

“As you see fit, _Herr_ Bondevik.” Munk nods, then continues. “I will find a suitable companion for you, and I will have provisions assembled.”

“Thank you, Seignor, for your help,” Lukas says quietly, a deep sincerity to his words.

“It is my duty,” Munk affirms, and he rises, turning to leave.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik, be prepared to depart at dawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background information and context:
> 
> This chapter references an impending attack on Stockholm, to be executed by the Danish army. This was actually the second option for Danish forces at the time—the original course of action had been to attack Kalmar Castle, originally built during the twelfth century (and expanded during the thirteenth century on the orders of the Swedish king Magnus Ladulås) on the Kalmar Strait (Swedish: _Kalmarsund_ ). Kalmar Castle is located in the modern-day city of Kalmar, Småland Province, Sweden.
> 
> The Danish forces had abandoned the original plan because much of the army, which was made up of mercenaries, refused to march due to inadequate pay (throwback to Chapter One, where Magnus mentions needing to meet with a group of mercenaries to help mediate pay negotiations!).
> 
> Now with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading—it would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism down below!
> 
> The next chapter will be posted on this Friday, July 10.


	6. A Haze of Cloying Heat and Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm back today with the sixth chapter of "Beneath the Northern Lights." I'd like to thank everyone that has taken the time to read, comment, or leave Kudos! Your support means so much to me. Also, you might notice that today's chapter is a little shorter—this is because it felt logical to segment the story as such. Don't worry, next week's will be longer than usual!
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and as always, historical context and information are included at the end!

_Akershus Fortress, Oslo, Norway_

_June 1567, Nordic Seven Years’ War_

Lukas sleeps fitfully that night.

Here and there he wakes, but those brief moments are so clouded by a haze of cloying heat and confusion that he is unsure if he is truly awake, or if it is simply a fevered dream. 

When finally he wakes and cannot fall back asleep, when finally he is lucid and aware, the room is still dark. Beyond the window, Lukas can see the sky at the horizon just beginning to lighten.

_Cold_.

He shivers, pulls the covers tighter around himself. Sleepily, he presses the back of his hand to his forehead. The skin is dry and hot to the touch; the fever, he notes, in some distant, detached part of his mind, has worsened overnight.

Slowly, he manages to struggle into an upright position. He has to pause and catch his breath, nearly bent double, his shoulders shaking with a coughing fit as a sudden, heady wave of nausea rolls over him.

In that moment, there is an overwhelming urge to let his body fold back into the covers, to sink back down into that hot, dim haze, succumb to that soft, black tide of sleep once again.

Lukas pushes it down.

_I can’t. Not…not now. I have to be strong_.

_Breathe_ , he reminds himself. _It’ll be alright. I just...have to take it slow_.

It subsides eventually, and Lukas rises gingerly. His movements are careful, measured, as he prepares for that day’s departure, as he neatly folds the covers back on the bed, dresses for the day, slings the bag that he had packed the night before over his shoulder, pauses to catch his breath. He picks up the sheathed sword from where it leans against the wall and buckles it around his waist; he picks up the little cross from the nightstand, brushes away that errant lock of hair away from his forehead and pins it into place.

_This is it_ , he thinks, and he turns to leave the room.

Lukas has scarcely taken a step when that fiery pain hits, blooms in his side just as it had three weeks prior.

He catches at the bedpost, trying to stay upright, but his grip is too weak. When it breaks, he falls.

_No…This can’t…_

“ _Herr_ Bondevik! Are you alright?”

The words issue from the other side of the door.

Lukas tries to muster the strength to call out for help, to say anything at all, but the words die in his throat and his vision grows hazy and suddenly he is no longer there on the hard wooden floor, curled around the pain in his side.

The city that he sees before him is familiar; he knows that it is one of his own. Although the image is blurry, he can see his people raise their weapons in a hurried defense.

It is futile, though, because as he watches, they are cut down, one after another, by the enemy’s blades, by their bullets. At the same time, the pain in his side seems to twist and surge.

Lukas cannot bear to watch any longer, but he cannot look away. Instead, he focuses on the city that is just then beginning to burn, searches for anything recognizable. He just barely glimpses those familiar pale walls, those peaked roofs before he is wrenched away.

He is back in Akershus Fortress, he realizes; he can discern the figures of people crowding all around him. Dimly, he recognizes the person leaning over him as Munk.

“Seignor Munk,” Lukas manages. “Hamar...is burning.”

The low murmur of voices that fills the room instantly escalates in volume.

Lukas opens his mouth once more; Munk holds up a hand and the room gradually falls silent.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik, what is the matter?” Munk asks.

“You must…you must still send me to Stockholm,” Lukas breathes. The pain intensifies suddenly; he clenches his teeth.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik, you cannot be serious!” Munk is taken aback. “You must rest—rest and recover!

“No. This is...more important.” Lukas hisses the words through gritted teeth.

“Even so, how could you even make the journey in this condition?” Munk counters, his tone incredulous.

“Tie me to my mount,” Lukas says; determination lends him a little strength and fortifies his words.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik, I—” Munk begins, but Lukas cuts him off.

“Promise me, Seignor, that you will send me on my way. Promise me!” he cries out, summoning a last, desperate burst of strength, and finally the pain and the blackness that has begun to creep in at the edges of his vision and the sheer exhaustion that has weighed him down for so long come crashing down.

Then, there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical information and context:
> 
> This chapter references the burning of Hamar. The Swedish forces that had intended to capture Oslo (as depicted in Chapter Four) were ultimately repelled by the forces of King Frederick II of Denmark-Norway (who reigned from 1559 until 1588), causing them to retreat in a northeastern direction. On their way, they burned Hamar, which they had previously captured (mentioned in this story in Chapter One).
> 
> Now with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading—it'd be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism down below!
> 
> The next chapter, the final chapter before the epilogue, will be posted next Tuesday, July 14. All I can say is: "Buckle up, y'all."


	7. Beneath the Northern Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I'm back today with the seventh chapter of "Beneath the Northern Lights." I'd like to thank everyone that's taken the time to read, comment, or leave Kudos on the story so far! Your support means so much to me.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and as always, historical information and context are included at the end of the chapter!
> 
> Also, lowkey, y'all better buckle up.

_En Route to Stockholm, Sweden_

_June 1567, Nordic Seven Years’ War_

Sleep.

It is this softness, this darkness, that seems to surround Lukas, seems to reach up and enfold him in a velvety blanket the color of the night and draw him down, down, down, ever deeper.

He seems to sink to the very bottom. Try as he might, he cannot rise, for his body is leaden with the weight of exhaustion.

It is different in that place—it is peaceful, mostly. Here and there, he dreams.

He dreams of a sprawling city, of a blue, blue sky and pearly white clouds. He dreams of fire, of a flicker of pain in his body—

Eventually, the dreams melt away into the blackness that falls around him, and seemingly, so too does that quiet flicker of pain. He slumbers in stillness once again.

There is something else, then, he thinks. It is a memory, of wild blond hair glinting in a ray of pale winter sunlight, of eyes like the sky, deep and blue and clear, of a rare, genuine smile. He pulls it close, for he knows, instinctively, that _Yes, this is what I am fighting for_.

Lukas sleeps for a long time after that, and eventually, the memory is all that remains.

It is almost like he is there again, wrapped in that embrace, in that profound sense of warmth and something else that he cannot quite name. He feels safe, secure, grounded.

Time seems to slow, to puddle around him, and he is almost content there, sunken into this dark, dreamless sleep.

Then, there is something—a bitter taste, Lukas thinks, in his mouth.

His senses begin to come back little by little, to part and filter through the blackness that surrounds him. There is the rustle of the wind, the feeling of warmth on his skin, a sweet scent that lingers in the air.

Lukas opens his eyes.

It takes a few seconds for his vision to clear, for him to get his bearings.

He can see rays of sunlight shining through the canopy of leaves up above him, beyond which he can see the blue of the summer sky. Just to his right are little stalks of yellow flowers—sweet clover, he realizes. Shakily, he props himself up on one arm; barely a second passes before it gives out, and he falls back hard, a gasp escaping his lips.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik!” The voice comes from somewhere behind him. “Ah—let me help you up!”

The person guides Lukas to an upright position, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his back.

“Who are…?” Lukas begins, but his voice cracks from disuse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Who are you? What...?”

“My apologies, _Herr_ Bondevik!” The person comes into view. His face is familiar, Lukas realizes.

“My name is Aksel Nordskov, _Herr_ Bondevik! I am your travelling companion—Seignor Munk had mentioned needing someone experienced with the roads that lead from Oslo to Stockholm, so I volunteered to fill the position, as I am a messenger.”

“Oh…” Lukas realizes.

In that instant, it floods back—everything that had happened the morning that he had meant to leave for Stockholm. He remembers waking in that dark room just before dawn, remembers collapsing to the floor in a haze of pain, remembers his own desperate plea to the seignor.

“So he listened,” Lukas breathes, relieved. “Messenger Nordskov, my deepest thanks to you for your bravery in embarking on this journey,” he says.

“It is an honor, _Herr_ Bondevik!” Nordskov responds enthusiastically. “I am proud to have been able to contribute to the war effort.”

“It is very much appreciated,” Lukas says. “Messenger…are we nearing our destination?”

“Yes, _Herr_ Bondevik. We have but a few fours’ travel remaining before we will arrive at the camp, if we are able to continue soon,” Nordskov answers.

“Thank you, Messenger Nordskov.” Lukas pauses for a moment and looks around; to his left, he can see two horses grazing on the grass just on the other side of the beaten dirt road before him. “May I ask why we are stopped?”

“Ah, yes!” Nordskov exclaims. “Seignor Munk was unsure that you would wake in time, so he sent me with an herbal tonic meant to both restore wakefulness and reduce fever.”

Nordskov pauses; when he resumes speaking, there is note of uncertainty in his voice.

“He had told me that it would be best for you to heal and wake on your own, that I should only use the medicine as a last resort, but…” his voice trails off.

 _Ah…the bitter taste_ , Lukas realizes.

“You used good judgement, Messenger Nordskov,” he says reassuringly. “I feel well enough to travel—we should continue our journey momentarily. I would like to thank you once again, Messenger Nordskov, for so readily accompanying me. You have done well.”

“I am honored,” Nordskov says, smiling with relief. “Here, I will help you up.”

Leaning heavily on Nordskov, Lukas manages to stand. He has scarcely taken a step forward before he has to pause, suddenly nauseated. He swallows hard on a throat that is abruptly dry, taking a deep breath.

There is that sharp pain in his chest again; he finds himself doubled over as he begins to cough violently. When the bout of coughing finally subsides, he can taste blood in the back of his throat, see droplets of it staining the ground.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik!” Nordskov exclaims, alarmed. “Are you sure that you are well enough to travel?”

“Yes, Messenger,” Lukas manages. “I am...fine. We must continue…we must reach the camp before nightfall.”

“Alright, _Herr_ Bondevik…if you are sure,” Nordskov concedes.

A few minutes later, Lukas’ hands are knotted tightly in the reins of his horse’s bridle, his head bent close to its mane.

They ride.

Just as the sun begins to set, just as those first vibrant hues of red and pink and orange begin to bleed into the sky at the horizon, they come upon a vast, empty field littered with abandoned firepits, some of which still smolder with a smoky, half-spent glow. Lukas knows, as soon as he sees those clots of dirt and grass scattered all around, that there had been tents pitched, had been blazing campfires, had been an army there.

 _They've marched_ , he realizes.

Nordskov tugs the reins back, and his horse slows to a stop. Lukas can see the beginnings of despair in his eyes.

“It was here,” he says quietly. “The camp…it was here. _Herr_ Bondevik, I am sorry. We are…too late.”

“No.” Lukas shakes his head. “All is not lost,” he says decisively. “We can still reach them—we need only ride to Stockholm. Messenger Nordskov, can you lead the way?”

“Ah...yes, _Herr_ Bondevik!”

“Good. Messenger, we must hurry!”

With a flick of the reins, Nordskov spurs his horse into a gallop and veers away from the empty field; Lukas follows behind him.

 _I’m coming, Magne. I promise_.

The sky darkens steadily as they ride on. Lukas looks up to the sky; he can see the dark, depthless expanse of the night sky, see the pearly glow of a moon half-obscured by a cloud, see the bright pinpricks of the emerging stars.

Then, there is a flicker of light at the edge of the distant sky that stretches out before him. As he watches, there is another, and another, until rippling ribbons of blue light dance across the sky. He searches those bright arcs for something familiar, for those fleeting glimmers of that shade of blue that has always invoked in him thoughts of the sky, thoughts of the ocean, thoughts of that loving gaze.

Gently, he traces a fingertip across the little cross in his hair.

“Magne,” he whispers. He lets the wind carry the name away. “I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

They ride on beneath those shimmering beams of light, their path drenched in that ethereal blue glow.

It is after perhaps an hour that Lukas begins to see them in the distance, to see the soldiers waiting in ragged lines on either side of a vast, grassy plain.

As they ride closer and closer, he is able to hear the clash of metal on metal, of one blade on another, to discern two figures locked in combat at the very center of the field.

“No,” he whispers.

_Berwald...Magnus!_

Lukas jerks the reins back sharply, causing the horse to come to an abrupt stop. Quickly, messily, he dismounts, landing hard on the ground.

He is already running when he hears Nordskov call out behind him.

“ _Herr_ Bondevik! What are you doing? You cannot interrupt the rite of single combat!”

Lukas ignores Nordskov’s alarmed yell and forges ahead, unsheathing the sword at his hip in one swift, fluid motion.

In that moment, it is like everything before him narrows to a point.

With each step, they fall away—those final traces of exhaustion, of fear, of hesitation.

All that is left is the overwhelming need to protect the one he loves—to protect Magnus.

He would lay down his life for Magnus, he realizes, but a part of him, he suspects, has always known it.

There is, then, the cross and strike of those two blue-glimmering blades.

Lukas sees the raw desperation in Berwald’s expression, sees the calculation that tempers it and the anger that drives it. He sees the exhaustion, the despair, the very same desperation that mark out Magnus’ expression beneath that resolute, unfaltering façade that he has come to know so well.

Lukas watches as their blades lock. He watches as Berwald pushes forward, as he forces Magnus to his knees, as the sheer strength that drives his blow prises the sword from Magnus’ grip, as he brings his sword up over his head for what will surely be a deathblow—

“No!” Lukas cries out, and with a final leap forward, he knocks away Berwald’s blade with the flat of his own.

Berwald freezes for a few seconds, shock apparent on his face. In that moment, Lukas steps back into a ready stance, his sword held steady.

“Magne! Go, get to safety!” Lukas shouts, not taking his eyes off Berwald. He opens his mouth to issue a challenge.

“I, Lukas Bondevik of Denmark-Norway, challenge you, Berwald Oxenstierna of Sweden, to the rite of single combat!”

Lukas’ voice does not waver, and his words carry clearly, cutting through the silence that hangs so heavily all around them.

Berwald squares his shoulders, readjusts his grip on his sword.

“I, Berwald Oxenstierna of Sweden, accept your challenge, Lukas Bondevik of Denmark-Norway!” he calls, the deep rumble of his voice rolling over the battlefield.

They stand opposite each other for a very long moment.

Then, Berwald strikes. Although Lukas is able to bring his sword up in time, he is barely able to block it, to stand against the sheer power that drives it.

 _I have to be strong_.

Lukas tightens his grip and lunges, his blade cutting a silvery-blue arc in the air. There is a peal of metal slipping against metal; Berwald manages to halt the strike on his crossguard and jerks his sword away, holding it ready at his shoulder.

They slip into a rhythm, then, of slashing blades and narrow misses.

Before long, though, Lukas’ breathing grows ragged, and his movements become progressively slower and weaker, until he is barely able to fend off Berwald’s unrelenting attacks.

His strength is flagging, he realizes.

 _I have to be strong_ , he finds himself repeating. _I want to be strong for my people. I want to be strong for Magne. I want to protect them_.

Lukas forces his shaking hands to still, to tighten on the grip of his sword.

 _I can be strong. I can protect them. I know it_.

In that instant, Berwald strikes.

Lukas summons all the strength he has left to block, but even as he brings his blade up in a shimmering arc, he realizes that he has moved just a fraction of a second too late. He knows then, in that instant, that he has moved too late, too late to deflect the blow.

It is blunt, the impact that follows.

“I’m sorry, Lukas,” Berwald whispers in those trembling seconds of silence; there is something raw and agonized in his voice.

After a long moment, Berwald pulls his sword from Lukas’ body, its blade sheathed in scarlet.

_It hurts..._

His knees give out. Someone catches him before he hits the ground, lowering him down gently.

“Magne,” Lukas manages, his voice the barest of whispers, as he meets those anguished blue eyes with his own.

He realizes, then, that it really is Magnus before him, and he is relieved, so relieved that he is alive, that he is safe.

“It’s you,” he breathes. “Oh, Magne…why are you so sad? Please, don’t cry…”

“Lukas,” Magnus chokes out, and Lukas feels that familiar, feather-light touch on his cheek. “Please, don’t…”

“Hush,” Lukas says fondly. “ _Min elskede_ …I need you to promise me…promise me to keep fighting.”

“I…” Magnus’ breath hitches. “I will. I promise, Lukas.”

Lukas smiles faintly.

There is something else he wants to say, but he can no longer summon the strength to speak the words that well up in his throat.

Lukas lets his gaze drift skyward, to the ribbons of light that dance still. He finds himself thinking of an old legend, one that he remembers from when his people had still called themselves the Ostmen.

He finds himself wondering if the valkyries have come for him, if those ribbons of light that ripple through the sky are truly the otherworldly glow of their armor, their shields.

_Am I dying?_

The thought crosses his mind, but it does not scare him as it might have a few days ago.

There is no pain, then, only a sense of all-encompassing warmth, of overwhelming love.

 _It’s alright now_ , Lukas realizes, and there, beneath the northern lights, he lets his eyelids slip shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical information and context:
> 
> This chapter vaguely references a "sprawling city" that is mentioned in association with fire. This city is, in actuality, the city of Skien. Skien is both a country and municipality, and it is located in modern-day Vestfold og Telemark County, Norway. In 1567, the same group of Swedish forces that captured Hamar (as mentioned in Chapter One!) ended up marching all the way to Skien and burning it down.
> 
> This chapter also references the Viking Age, which lasted from 793 C.E. to 1066 C.E. Lukas refers to them as the "Ostmen," which was what the Vikings called themselves. During the Viking Age, the prevailing mythology was the Norse mythology, a part of which was the valkyries. They were responsible for choosing who would die in battle, as well as for choosing among those that had died in battle to determine who would go to Valhalla, a hall in the heavens over which Odin, a powerful and greatly revered Norse god, ruled. One of the myths surrounding valkyries was that the northern lights, or the aurora borealis, were the glow of the valkyries' armor.
> 
> Now with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for reading—it'd be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism below!
> 
> The next (and final) chapter, which will serve as the epilogue that wraps this story up, will be posted this Saturday, 7/18.


	8. In the Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Today, I'm back with the eighth and final chapter of "Beneath the Northern Lights." I'd like to take the time to thank everyone that's taken the time to read, comment, or leave Kudos! Your support is invaluable to me. Also, I don't want to leave a wall of text here, so please see the end notes for a longer message to mark the conclusion of my very first story in the Archive.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and as always, historical information and context are included at the end of the chapter!

_Lyngør, Norway_

_July 1567, Nordic Seven Years’ War_

Once again, Lukas sleeps.

This time, though, there are no dreams. There are no visions of cities besieged, of clear skies clouded by thick, gray smoke, of those blue eyes made empty and lifeless. There is worry, and there is pain, and there is regret, but, as time passes, they all fall away.

Peace is the only thing left, then, and finally, he is able to rest.

After a very long while, he wakes.

It is gradual. There is the gentle touch of a breeze upon his brow, and then there is the rush of water and lapping waves just a little ways away, and then there is a soft warmth that lingers on his skin.

Lukas opens his eyes.

At first, what he sees is unfamiliar—those pale walls, those scuffed wooden floorboards, those wide-open windows through which sunlight streams into the room, through which the barest bit of blue, blue ocean can be seen.

Then he remembers, remembers when they had found this place, this hidden little cliff by the sea, had built a home there together, had been happy there together, even if only fleetingly and long ago.

 _Am I really here?_ he wonders. _Am I really here again?_

Slowly, he manages to shift into an upright position. There is a twinge of pain in his chest, and it is then that he sees again those shimmering ribbons of light in the sky, that silvery blade sheathed in scarlet, those blue eyes filled with their depthless sorrow. He relives it all, and he knows in that moment that he would easily do it all again.

There is a slight rustle to Lukas’ left. He turns, and that is when he sees that familiar head of wild blond hair, when he realizes that it is Magnus asleep in the wooden chair beside the bed, shifting in his slumber. His head is pillowed on his arm, which is flung out over the covers; Lukas realizes that he must have dozed off.

Those purplish smudges under his eyes are darker than ever, and even in sleep, his face is etched with exhaustion, with worry, with a muted kind of anguish.

“Oh, _min elskede_ ,” Lukas murmurs. “When did you become so sad?”

Lukas gives a start when Magnus stirs at the sound of his voice, blinking sleepily. When he lifts up his head to see Lukas, his eyes widen, and all traces of drowsiness vanish instantly from his gaze.

“Lukas,” he breathes wonderingly. “Am I dreaming? Is it really you? Are you really…awake?”

“It’s really me, Magne. I'm really awake now,” Lukas answers, a hesitant, hopeful smile on his face.

“Lukas!” Magnus cries out, pulling him into a desperate embrace. “You’re alright, you’re alright,” he sobs. Lukas can feel him trembling, can feel the shudders that wrack his body.

It is then that Lukas is abruptly struck with a sense of surreality.

“You’re really here with me again,” he realizes, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve really brought me home again.”

“I wanted to protect you,” Magnus whispers. “I wanted to keep you safe. I brought you back to Lyngør to recover, away from the war…” He pauses for a lengthy moment. “Lukas…I am so, so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Lukas echoes confusedly. “Magne, why would you be sorry?”

“I let you get hurt,” Magnus says quietly, and he lowers his head. “Lukas, you could easily have died, and I let it happen.”

“Oh, Magne…” The tears begin to well up in Lukas’ eyes, and he squeezes his eyelids shut, causing them to spill down his cheeks. “It was my choice, Magne…no one in the world could have stopped me. I’d do it again, and again, and again, if it meant being able to protect you.”

“But how could you have known? How could you have known that you would survive?” Magnus asks, his voice shaking almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t,” Lukas replies simply.

“Why, then? Why would you put yourself in harm’s way for me?” As he speaks, Magnus’ voice breaks.

“I was worried for you,” Lukas explains. “I was worried that you had been overtaken by despair…I was worried that it might have made you mortal.”

Magnus is silent; it is then that Lukas realizes that he had been right to worry.

“Thank you, Lukas. You saved my life,” Magnus finally says; there is a deep sincerity in his words.

“I would never let anything happen to you,” Lukas swears. He pulls back so that he can meet Magnus’ eyes.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Magne.”

“What is it?” Magnus prompts after a long pause.

“As I watched my people fight for Oslo, I realized something,” Lukas begins. “Magne, there is still so much that we are fighting for. We fight for our people, just as they fight for us, and we are strong for them, just as they are strong for us. I watched as they defended the city, and it was then that I resolved to fight, to hold on to hope. Hope makes us strong, Magne, and I realize now that it was what must have allowed me to survive what should have been a fatal wound.”

Lukas pauses, taking Magnus’ hands in his own.

“Magne, I want to fight for you, just as I fight for my people. I want to be strong for you…I know that I can be strong for you. Do you understand it, _min elskede_? We can make it through this. We can survive. We can be strong for each other, and there will be peace one day.”

“I understand, Lukas,” Magnus answers after a short silence. “I do.”

There is a deep, deep ache in his voice; it is one to which Lukas has become well attuned over all these years. He can see that pain—as familiar to him as his own—so plainly in Magnus’ eyes, hear it so plainly in his voice. There is hope, though, too—a tentative little note of it that persists in Magnus' words, even now.

Lukas looks deep into those eyes, those blue, blue eyes made luminous with emotion and tears that are still welling up.

“It’s alright to worry, to be afraid to lose what you hold dear…but isn’t that the very same reason we fight? For our people, for each other?” Lukas asks, and with the lightest of touches, he smudges away Magnus’ tears.

The smile that blooms on Magnus’ face is tired and wan, but it is genuine.

“Yes,” he says after a quiet, contemplative moment; the word is filled with certainty. “We’ll be strong for each other, and we’ll make it through this because we have each other.”

“I know that it will be difficult, but I promise that I will see you through this war…that I will see you through anything and everything that comes after it for as long as I am able,” Lukas vows. 

“I promise, too. _Min elskede_ , I promise that I will be here for you, through all that is still to come. I promise that I will fight for you and protect you, that I will never turn my back on you,” Magnus pledges in turn.

Ever so gently, Lukas touches Magnus’ cheek, the brush of his fingers feather-light.

“I love you, Magne,” Lukas says softly. “I love you with everything that I have, with everything that I am, and I will never stop.”

“I love you too, Lukas,” Magnus says in return, and his face is filled with pure joy, with a radiant, boundless happiness. “I will love you for as long as I live, with no restraint, with no regret.”

There, in the sunlight that streams into the room, they embrace once more.

 _All will be well_ , Lukas realizes, and he smiles, because at long last, everything feels right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical information and context:
> 
> This chapter references the modern coastal town of Lyngør, located in Tvedestrand Municipality, which is in turn located in Agder County, Norway. Tvedestrand, and by extension Lyngør, were settled in the 800s, during the beginning of the Viking Age.
> 
> I like to imagine Lukas and Magnus exploring the Norwegian coast, finding this secret little seaside spot, and building a home there. Also, Lyngør is absolutely beautiful, and it is a popular summer vacation destination.
> 
> Now with the contextual information out of the way, I'd like to thank you for sticking with and reading my story! My first experience posting here has been so positive, and it has been such an enjoyment to interact with you.
> 
> I plan to write another story soon—I have three ideas in the works, specifically for two historical stories about Tino and Berwald (Finland and Sweden) and Elizabeta and Roderich (Hungary and Austria) and a human AU about Yao and Ivan (China and Russia). So, if you'd like to read those stories, please stick around! I will probably begin posting again later in the summer.
> 
> I'd like to thank you once again for reading my story, and I really hope you enjoyed this final chapter. It would be great if you could leave a comment or some constructive criticism below!
> 
> Until next time!


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